


Gunman, Wooed

by huffspuffsblows



Category: Lupin III
Genre: M/M, The Smooze
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:15:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3451925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huffspuffsblows/pseuds/huffspuffsblows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gunslinger: stubborn, of the rough hands and the heart sleeves--<br/>not so wooed<br/>(maybe)<br/>musing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gunman, Wooed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deuil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuil/gifts).



  
For [deuil](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deuil), who could use more cheer.  
1\. This prompt was inspired by: [this beauty](https://twitter.com/maltairs/status/570694939094474752)  
2\. You should read Wife-Wooing by John Updike. It's kinda cute and has good use of the term smackwarm

He's reminded of this corny little brilliant spark of a word from Ulysses: smackwarm. To the point, Lupin's been smackwarm for as many times as he's been granted the frosty brunt of a woman's wintry heart [absolutely his fault], usually simultaneously. Jigen has been there to see most, if not all, of those instances. Afterwards it's always calloused fingers pinching too harshly at reddening skin, gruff chastising to combat pathetic whining. The works. Lupin's skin is always warm and flushed to the touch after such encounters, and sulking abounds. Complete with lower lip jut and teary eyes. But there's always this spark behind those dark eyes, a neverending circuit.

[It's a relief as much as it is a point of frustration; the circuit will continue to ignite round and round and round, to be expected, learning curve set at such a low toilet-level bar]

As much these finer things in life [a front row seat to Lupin getting his ass rejected or kicked or tied up, laughter bubbling in his chest till it runneth over, slides right out of his ribs till he drowns but oh, oh, he'd happily sink to the depths from this warmth] bring Jigen joy he'll only admit to when Lupin's being a particular pain in the ass or when his ass needs saving _again_ from Villain of the Week Bent On Destruction, there's another time he enjoys smackwarm skin the best.

It's times like these just after they've finished screwing, when his chest stops trying to collapse in on the rest of his soft, hard working organs, and Lupin's knocked the fuck out next to him, face mashed in his pillow. His skin is smackwarm beneath Jigen's fingers, where he traces nonsense shapes along well-known raised scars and the jagged lines he's put Lupin back together into.

[He's comfortable in knowing no matter how jagged the cut, no how razed the edges, Lupin will always knit back, piece by piece, into Lupin. The majority of the time he doesn't have to ponder otherwise, with fear lining his gut.]

[they'll always pick up each others pieces, mash them together in some resemblance of their puzzle, thumb hard at the wheel of a lighter as they move on]

It's not smackwarm so much as it is scratch-warm, bruise-warm, bite-warm. Lupin's shoulders are still red from a white-knuckled grip, from crescent marks dug deep in yielding flesh. White hot, red hot under Jigen's touch. Red to match the blue bruises on his hips, teeth marks of a feral dog in gentleman's clothing within the juncture of neck and shoulder.

The thief's chest rises and falls, pressed into the mattress, his pulse roars through his spine where Jigen's settled a palm to the dips and grooves. With a shift, Lupin snuffles into his pillow, and Jigen knows with stunning clarity he'll have to nudge him and probably turn his head so he doesn't suffocate. For now, though, he's his own big bag of hot air.

[As usual]

It's probably the snuffle and this knowledge of once again having to play voice of reason to this infant that makes his chest quiver like he's queasy and too full at once. It's exactly that bothersome feeling which elicits a scoff from him, fond and dry around the edges, but the edges fit perfectly with a certain thief all the same.

That's why he traces letters, rapt attention, entirely engrossed, onto the small of Lupin's back, in drying sweat and over puckered goosebumps. He swipes a thumb through his work a moment later ["That was fucking stupid"], dismissively.

Then our hero sans borsalino, graceful sharp shooter and sarcastic front man, nearly falls off the bed when Lupin turns his head, eyes closed, to mumble in a raspy, sleep-fucked voice,

".....- _ove you too..._ "

Jigen's eyes widen as he jackknifes up onto his knees, waiting with bated breath to see if a name follows [chest tight and beads of sweat at his hairline, mouth dry].

"Dork." Yup there's awareness, fuzzy and muddled as it is, in those dark eyes, and Jigen's cheeks flush volcanic-hot the instant their eyes meet.

Hardly a toe reaches the floor in retreat, destination: hat, then exit, before noodle-y arms wind around his waist, pull him flush up against Lupin's chest, which rumbles with laughter.

Jigen feels nothing but indignation, and his mouth opens, springloaded with fire. "Asshole."

But the thief shushes him, and instead of punching him in the kidney and leaving, Jigen quiets, lulled by sleep warm and smackwarm and content, for now, to bury his burning face into Lupin's neck.

All is well.

"You can tell me _allll_ ~ about how much in the morning. A yacht load? A yacht filled with booze load? The possibilities are endless!"

The sound Lupin makes when he hits the floor sounds uncannily like a wounded giraffe.


End file.
